We dropped over to a neighbor’s to see her collection of old radios. Well, her husband’s, really, but he’s passed over, so. British radios of the pre-war era were generally so much more dour that I expected. Everyone wanted them dark wood to go with the furniture, I guess.
They're interesting, but not any better than the best of the American radios of the period.
I was still glad to have the opportunity to see them. And the woman to whom they belonged was a hoot.
Then sad goodbyes and protestations of friendship and reassurances that I’ll be back soon, and I was off on the 13:44 for Ipswich.
All out:
The Ipswich Switch on this leg is easy, as you just move down the platform to pick up the next train. This one took me to the Elizabeth Line to get to Heathrow. Can you tell we’re getting close to London?
Here’s fun challenge: match that building with this sound clip.
What do they have in common?
And why do you imagine a splash at the end?
I must note: not leaving until tomorrow morn. I could’ve gone out around two, but that one stops in JFK and I’m going to avoid that customary nonsense as long as I can. The panic! The terror! The misery of the line and the wait and the injustice of having to go through security again. No, I was going to the Hilton Garden Inn to spend the night, which, according to the maps, was across the street from Hatton Cross Scrap.
The architecture of the tube stop has that post Brutalist look that’s a bit homier, but still has that bleak impersonal government style. It was used for businesses, too, but it usually looked better and didn’t have the inevitable haphazard maintenance issues, taped signage, etc.
Do you know what I mean about the slight shabby decay of public spaces? I don't mean graffiti or broken windows, but this.
Stuff gets added and never gets removed. Tape frays and collects dust.
Dragged my bag to the hotel. Up the lift to seven, down the hall, studying the carpet to see if we can date the place. It has that indistinct design of the 21st century. Can't quite settle on anything. No bit to which it might commit. Not classical, not sedate, not bright and over-modern, but settling comfily into the groove of the Modern Nowhere Place.
I don't mind it. All I need is a desk and a chair that can be lowered or raised. The bed, I know, will probably be good. The sheets smooth and cool. The only matter that needs confirmation now is the quality of the restaurant food. The menu has all the usuals, and I realize . . . didn't I have this menu in Luton last year? Or was that a Marriott? It was a Marriott. But it was the same. Spicy chicken, hamburger, curry, pizza (shudder) and some jackfruit veggie thing. Fine. The person at the table next to me had the hamburger, the Union Jack, and it loooked absolutely perfect. Fine. I'll have that.
What a stupid thing to do. This must be the third time I've actually thought it was worth a chance to try a hamburger abroad. It's never worth a chance.
I wrote all night and kept up on the Vikings game with The Giant Swede and the Crazy Uke, through texting. Occasionally they would send video of a particular play. By ten I was exhausted; I assembled everything as best as I could for the morning, set ten alarms, and was soon asleep.
Six and a half hours later, for the first time ever in my life I found myself thinking, "It's 4:47. No reason I shouldn't get up now."
I'd slept enough! I wasn't weary! Oh, I can bear this! And I was ahead of schedule, too. Left the hotel at 5:11, and walked in the dark to the Tube station. Brisk good morning walk past the scrap center and the roundabouts, good for the soul. (Actually bad for the soul on a regulat basis but when you're full of vim and heading home, it's fine.) When I got down the stairs at Hatton Cross the train was just sitting there, doors open, as if it was waiting just for me. A three minute rumble, then the subterranean journey through the blue-lined bowels:
With trepidation I ascended the escalator, remembering nightmares of Heathrow past.
There wasn't a soul in line.
Well, it was 5:38, so I imagine that had something to do with it.
Checked straight through. Went outside to enjoy the weather until I was stuck inside recirculatory environments for the next 12 hours.
Security was likewise easy, and now I had a very long time to wait until the flight took off. And that was fine, because the alternative was show up later, and stand in line. Much better to get a cup of Caffe Nero and find an outlet and watch the world.
Or listen to it, since the submoronic youth sitting next to me at the charging station, hunched over his screen as if it was an object beyond his ken that fell from the gods, insisted on playing soccer highlights at loud volumes, and if you said "Headphones. Try your headphones" he gave no sign of noticing. He was part of a sports group, and they were all identically dressed, and they all had the extreme posture of phone watching, their shoulders practically touching their knees.
Having charged up my phone a bit and enjoyed a nice bit of judgmentalism, I moved on. Bookstore. Any newspapers? Oh heavens no, why would there be newspapers. Were there papers anywhere in the terminal? Didn't seem so. No one needed them anyway. They had their phones.
A room full of people reading newspapers is different than a room full of people looking at phones. It's a matter of who's in charge.
Boarding! It's fun at Heathrow, where all the gate areas are closed-off rooms and you have to show your papers to get in. Surprise: no jetway. Buses. And that means you get to the classic boarding, which for some reason I just love.
It's so glamourous.
Speaking of which: as we ambled to the runway, we passed an old relic of the future.
That's the G-BOAB.
Up and up and into the eternal day, every hour brighter than the last. Lunch was a gloppy chicken stew; after Pretend Sleep time we were handed thick ropes of bread with some "margherita pizza" interior. There were, of course, cookies, in case your sweet tooth was not satisfied with the two tiramisu cakes you'd had three hours before.
About 30 minutes before landing there was a general consensus that the window shades should be raised, and the mood changed to weary anticipation. SCREECH, reverse thrusters, and I'm home.
Tired beyond description right now as I type the end of the trip and if you will kindly let me end here I cannot keep my head up any
